


infinite rhythms

by drunktuesdays



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Lactation Kink, M/M, Mpreg, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/pseuds/drunktuesdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell me,” Stiles murmurs into his hair, loops his arms tight around his neck.  “Tell me, tell me, tell me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	infinite rhythms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinsense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinsense/gifts).



> originally posted on tumblr and written for the trope meme. sinsense prompted lactation.

“Tell me,” Stiles murmurs into his hair, loops his arms tight around his neck. “Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

Derek is sweating everywhere, fingers slipping on Stiles’s hips as he tries to get the leverage to shove up, to fuck the bright curiosity out of Stiles’s eyes, to reduce him to the jello Derek is. “I love you,” he sighs, pressing his forehead against Stiles’s shoulder, closes his eyes tight as he comes.

“Derek,” Stiles sighs, and he’s disappointed. Derek’s used to that in a lover. 

Later, when they’re clean and quiet, curled under the fresh sheets and oversized comforter, Stiles says “you’ll have to tell me sometime.”

“Jesus, Stiles” Derek says, tensing. “Can’t I just enjoy the afterglow?”

“I tell you everything,” Stiles says, and he’s pulling himself up, rests a palm on Derek’s chest. “I’ve never hidden anything, I tell you--”

“Maybe we’re not all as kinky as you,” Derek snaps, and it’s mean, harsh. He shoves the sheet back, grabs his pants and his shoes in tight, jerky, movements.

“Where are you going?” Stiles says, sitting up in alarm.

“Out,” Derek says, and slams the door behind him. 

There isn’t anywhere to go. This is his house, his bed, and he’s long lost the taste for keeping boltholes in the city. He walks down the path to the preserve instead, stops when he reaches his favorite rocks, sits down to brood.

Stiles finds him there, like he always does. Derek doesn’t look up to acknowledge him approaching but he doesn’t stiffen when Stiles lays a hand on the back of his neck.

“If I’ve ever talked you into--” Stiles starts and Derek’s hand flies up to wrap around Stiles’s wrist, to tug him down into Derek’s lap.

  
“No,” he says, firm. “Never--no. I’ve liked everything.”

“I thought so,” Stiles says. “You always seemed to. You know I just want to give you the same things you give me, right?”

“I know,” Derek says. 

“Say it then,” Stiles says. “Just this once. Tell me you really don’t have any fantasies and I’ll leave it alone.”

Derek looks at him, really looks at him. Stiles is shivering in the cold night air, and his cheeks are a little read, his hair still damp from his shower. He’s the best thing about Derek’s dumb little life and if Derek lost him--

“I’m happy,” he tries.

“Tell me.”

Derek gives in. 

\--

Stiles plans it for a long weekend. The pack’s been warned to leave them alone, that their phones will be off, that they will be out of commission til Monday. Isaac tries ribbing him a few times, nudges an elbow into his gut, but Derek’s too tense to laugh. He feels the sweat pooling behind his knees, at his hairline.

“Stiles?” he calls, when he finally makes it home. The house is quiet, and then lights are off.

“In the bedroom,” Stiles yells back, and he sounds different, somehow. Turned on, Derek thinks, and the shame that’s been residing in his chest since he confessed starts to ease.

The bedroom door is closed and Derek knocks as he opens it, feels strange knocking on his own door but it’s worth it for the slow reveal of Stiles’s scent.

It’s like nothing Derek has ever smelled before. It’s still Stiles, but it’s heavy, rich, fertile. He’s stunned, stock still in the doorway as he processes it. 

“Good?” Stiles asks. He’s standing in front of the mirror, his back to Derek, and Derek closes his eyes against him, needs to calm down, dial it back a bit before he can even look at Stiles.

“I can’t believe you--” he chokes out, and can’t even finish the sentence. It’s pretty accurate as is. Stiles is unbelievable. 

There’s a soft noise as Stiles pads closer. Jesus, even his footsteps sound different, the weight hitting differently against the wood floor. Derek is breathing raggedly. every sense orienting on Stiles as he moves. 

“You’re not even looking,” Stiles chides, as he edges into Derek’s space. “I put a lot of work into this, and you’re not even appreciating it.”

Derek makes a noise, one he can’t even explain, but Stiles seems to interpret it right. Derek can hear the smirk in his voice when he says, “maybe so.” He takes another step closer and Derek can feel him, the unfamiliar curve pressing against his side as Stiles presses a kiss to his cheek. “Come to bed?” Stiles asks and Derek opens his eyes.

Sometimes, Derek thinks about how scary Stiles can be. Scott and Derek talk about it sometimes, how relentless, brutal, how terrifying Stiles can be for the people he loves. Derek has seen Stiles angry, and been scared in ways not even the worst of the villains they’ve faced have made him. They worry about it, him and Scott, worry about Stiles’s limitless capacity to defend them. 

“Good thing he also loves like that,” Scott had said, practically, and Derek had known it was true, had agreed, but he hadn’t known it like this. 

Stiles stands before him, heavy with child. His left hand is resting right on top of the swell, his thumb stroking sideways over his skin. It’s illusion, he knows it is, knows that Stiles can’t get pregnant, knows this is a carefully crafted spell Stiles has wrought here, for him. But to Derek’s senses, it’s flawless. Stiles is standing a little wider, braced like he’s carrying more weight, his scent is ripe and mouthwatering, his chest is--

“Come to bed,” Stiles says again, firmer, and he grabs Derek’s hand, leads him to the bed, Derek can’t help himself, tumbles Stiles back into the pillows. Stiles laughs, bright and happy and Derek kisses it out of him, kisses him until they’re both panting and glassy eyed.

“Go ahead,” Stiles says, when they break apart. “You know you want to.”

Derek does, kisses him once more on the lips, then his throat, trailing kisses down his neck until he reaches Stiles’s chest. 

He can’t sit astride Stiles like this, can’t hold his hips down while he bites his nipples. Everything is different and new with Stiles like this, so Derek balances himself over Stiles as he leans to cup one of Stiles’s tits with his palm. 

They’re heavy, warm, warmer than he’s ever felt them. They still smell like Stiles, sweet and flushed under his hand. Stiles arches under him, like they’re sore, and Derek imagines them growing, swelling slowly, Stiles needing Derek to rub and massage the ache out of them as they filled. They’re certainly full now, and Derek bends, takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks. 

  
Stiles yowls underneath him, hands coming up to press against Derek’s head, hold him like Derek could pry himself off if he tried. He scrapes his teeth gently over the nub and then licks away the sting, pressing his fingers into the curve, until the milk wells up on his tongue.

He’s embarrassed suddenly, face hot as he chases the taste. He’s an ass for making Stiles do this, an ass for wanting this and if only he had--

“Derek,” Stiles groans, “please. Please, I need you,” and twists, offering the other nipple to him. It doesn’t matter that Derek’s weak for wanting this. Stiles has to be taken care of, has to be helped, has to be milked and Derek’s face is hot hot hot, but he ducks his head to what Stiles is offering him, licks and bites and sucks until he’s panting, until they’re both panting, until Stiles is dry and mindlessly humping up at the air. 

“Shh, I know,” Derek says, and he’s not a soothing person but Stiles quiets to small, needy whimpers. “Turn over for me, baby,” and Stiles does. 

It takes some maneuvering, moving pillows and rearranging Stiles until Derek has him with his ass in the air. “Derek,” Stiles slurs out as Derek runs his hand over the curve of Stiles’s ass, but Derek sees it, almost chokes for a second.

Stiles is already wet, glistening and shockingly stretched. He doesn’t smell like lubricant, no sharp smell of chemicals clinging to him. Derek leans forward, licks a stripe from balls to spine, gathers the taste on his tongue, ignores the noise Stiles makes at it, the way his knees open wider. It tastes like Stiles, like heat and the woods somehow. 

“How did you do it?” he croaks, and presses his thumb inside, feels the way Stiles yields around him. 

  
“Wouldn’t be magic if you knew,” Stiles says, and his eyes are closed. Derek doesn’t know if Stiles is aware of the little pushes he’s giving with his hips, the way he’s fucking back onto Derek’s finger like he just has to get something into him. Derek takes out his thumb, gives him two, three, four fingers, just to check, just to feel the way Stiles needs him, protests when he withdraws.

“I swear if you don’t fuck me soon,” he yells, muffled by the way his face his currently pressed into the pillows, biting into his own forearm.

“I’ve got you,” Derek says, takes hold of his cock and feeds it in. “I got you Stiles, just let me,” and he thrusts with his whole body, curling an arm under Stiles, resting right above the curve of his body.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “You do, you got me you got me like this, fucked me full,” and he rears back onto his knees, shoves back until Derek’s holding him tight in both arms. 

It’s the most familiar and unfamiliar experience of his life. He’s shoving Stiles down, moving him onto his cock, making Stiles cry out. He’s got his face in Stiles’s neck, listening to Stiles cry out as they move and that’s good, that’s what they do, he’s done this a million times with Stiles.

But Stiles is falling back onto his hands and Derek’s hands are slipping up, cupping his tits as he drives back into Stiles’s body. He’s squeezing and pinching at them, and Stiles yelps, clenches around him. The smack of their bodies seems louder somehow, the swell of Stiles’s belly giving Stiles the heft he’s never had. The room stinks of them, of sweat, tears, milk and the slick Stiles is giving up where they’re joined. Derek’s so turned on, he’s out of his mind with it, and he’s not even surprised when he feels it, feels his knot swelling between them. 

“You fucking liar,” Stiles is laughing as he shoves back, and Derek growls, bites his neck, but Stiles doesn’t stop laughing. “God, you made me feel like a lunatic for asking, what was it, what was it that you called me?”

“A fetishist,” Derek says, and he’s not even sorry. They both groan when it pops it, and Derek gets his hand around Stiles’s cock, pumps it fast, the other hand still playing at his breast. 

“Right. A fetishist.”

“A big fetishist,” Derek agrees, and when he feels Stiles letting go, he screws his hips in tight for a beat, two, longer before he’s coming too, hot and thick into Stiles, pressing him into the mattress. 

“You’re the worst,” Stiles says, and elbows him until they can twist sideways, tangled and locked to each other. “I get to be in charge of all the sex stuff from now on.”

“Got it,” Derek says. There’s a beat, silence, and then Derek says, quiet. “thankyou.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Stiles says. “For trusting me.”

“How much time do we have?” Derek asks.

Stiles cranes his head to look at the clock. “Another hour, probably. But you can’t be ready to go again.” 

“Yeah?” Derek says, and pulls free of Stiles, turns him on his back. He licks his lips, looks at the drops of white leaking from Stiles’s nipples. “Sure about that?”

Stiles groans, drops his head back and pulls Derek’s head down. 

**Author's Note:**

> [x](http://nikolaiolivier.tumblr.com/post/26967738681/sex-is-not-a-goddamn-performance-sex-should)


End file.
